


Laid Low by your Hands

by Pakeha



Series: Child of the Enemy [2]
Category: The Mummy Returns (2001), The Mummy Series
Genre: Admiration, Anal Sex, Collars, Dubious Consent, Ephebophilia, M/M, Master/Slave, PWP, posessiveness, slight somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/pseuds/Pakeha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imhotep has had the boy every night since he has come to Egypt.  He is his prize, his possession, his victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laid Low by your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Once again I imagine this taking place in a slight AU where Alex is like sixteen/seventeen/eighteen during the events of the movie as opposed to, like, ten.

Imhotep’s hands are hot on Alex’s skin, trailing possessively over the low mound of his hip and the length of his thigh as the boy shivers in his sleep. He is naked but for the golden collar at his throat - whose deceptively fine chain keeps him forever near - and the cuff at his wrist which is so invaluable to their plans. 

With a sigh Imhotep lowers himself back so he reclines on the cushions next to Alex. He is ever-alert, but this train lulls him, the repetitive rocking of their train car a soothing rhythm. The technology is something he still finds extraordinary, and he marvels at the distances they can travel with such speed and in such luxury. No pallet or chaise had ever been this comfortable, surely - no Nile barge so well appointed. 

A moonless night stretches as thick and opaque as any curtain and only two lonely lamps swing near to them in the hazy car. They burn a sweet, fragrant oil and Imhotep inhales deep the familiar scent. He feels lazy, content, eager, powerful, _rich._

He is surrounded by tokens of his past life, the riches of ages past. All around him the wealth of his followers’ devotion glitters in the meager light, but no glinting jewel or priceless antiquity can pull Imhotep’s gaze away from his unexpected prize. 

To say that the O’Connells bred a beauty would be an understatement. He is, in a word, divine. The fineness of his young features so like his mother; the smoothness of his skin; his father’s pale hair and warm eyes; he is exotic. A rarity. A boon. 

As Imhotep’s eyes scrape over the youth’s figure, he sees the way his spine trembles in his sleep. The nights run cold in the desert, Imhotep is all to aware, and he allows himself an indulgent smile before he slips from his place and moves over Alex with the litheness of a lion, his eyes full of proprietary hunger. 

He has had the boy every night since he arrived in Egypt. Anck-su-namun has indulged him, aware of his need to own this creature and content enough to let him do as he pleases. Imhotep feels a pang of fondness for her love even as he lowers his head and begins to nurse at a dark purple-blue bruise on his prize’s shoulder, licking and suckling and worrying and chuckling to himself as the boy begins to squirm, rousing from his sleep only reluctantly. 

Even as gloriously possessed as he is, the boy is entirely unbroken: he is truly the offspring of his parents. His constant fighting coupled with Imhotep’s frequent attentions however has left him utterly exhausted, and until now he has slept heavily for some hours.

The priest knows better than to hope that the stillness will last long. Surely in the morning Alex will be back to his precocious self, but for now-

For now he is opening his eyes blearily. He is reaching up to weakly push at Imhotep’s shaved head. His breath his hitching. His body is trembling.

From his mouth tumbles a slurred protest and Imhotep sets his teeth to the lovely contusion beneath his tongue and the boy gives a hoarse cry. 

“God!” He calls out, a mindless plea, and Imhotep answers his summons with glee. 

“Child.” He croons, pulling back from the wound, satisfied to see it larger and redder than before. 

He had barely draped himself with a robe after their union earlier in the evening, and now he sits back for but a moment to again cast all coverings aside, revealing the new flesh and muscles which have been so carefully cultivated by his dear lover, and he spares her a moment of gratitude. 

Vanity has never been among his many faults, but he knows well enough that he is stunning in his own right. Now, with the boy as disoriented by sleep as he is, Imhotep is warmed by the perusal he is subjected to. 

Despite the anger, the lashing out, the protests, the boy does not look disgusted. 

He does not even look afraid. 

Imhotep’s spirit dances. His quirked lips pull into a true smile and he falls on the boy. Ravenous. 

Alex jerks, startled, and gives a yelp as the priest drags his hands down his sides, digging his fingers into muscle and bone, gliding over the cut of his hip bones and finding those glorious thighs. He rubs the skin there appreciatively, gentling his touch for a moment, before he slides his hands across the flesh and down over the boy’s inner thighs. 

Even dead-tired the boy still fights, and Imhotep relishes the resistance as he pulls the legs apart, exposes the boy’s entrance, still shiny-slick from his earlier ministrations. 

Leaning forward to use the bulk of his body to keep the boy’s legs spread, Imhotep slides his fingers up and up, using one hand to hold the youth’s limp cock to the side, and with the other he pushes in immediately with his thumb. 

The slide is snug and slick and warm and it is perfect. 

The child of his enemy is perfect. 

The steady string of insults and protests which have slipped from the boy’s lips turn to helpless, choked-off moans as Imhotep seeks and finds the familiar spot within him. It’s hard to remember that a few short days ago the boy hadn’t even known such a spot existed in his body. 

Such pleasures they have discovered here. Such lessons learned. 

In his hand the boy’s cock begins to harden and Imhotep entertains the idea of not even having the boy again, simply milking an orgasm from the youth with naught but his fingers. He imagines the way he would squirm and protest, panting, tears leaking from his eyes as he is assaulted by a deep massaging pleasure. He imagines his cock drooling spurt after spurt of come, one steady rolling orgasm rippling through the boy and leaving him totally destroyed.

An involuntary shudder runs through him at the image, but now is not the time. 

He does not feel patient tonight. 

His thumb pulls free with a wet sound and the boy is clearly stretched enough to not be damaged. 

“Damn you, we already did it tonight!” He manages to pant out, writhing as the priest’s fingers wrap firmly around his prick and begin to pump. 

“Why do you protest?” Imhotep murmurs, amused as he shifts on his knees and lines his own engorged cock with the boy’s small, familiar hole. “You cannot think I believe that you do not find incredible pleasure in this.”

Alex doesn’t answer with anything more than a hiss for Imhotep’s large cock is pushing in, delving past any and all resistance, persistent as it gains entrance to his body. The boy shuts his eyes and tosses his head back, the collar and chain clinking musically at the movement. His hands- well worn despite his age, bitten-nailed and strong- grip the cushions he lies on viciously, fighting is baser instincts reach up and hold on. 

The slide is beautiful and Imhotep does not withhold his sigh of delight, his eyelids drooping low to savor the pleasure, but never closing completely. Half of the bliss is watching Alex O’Connell react to taking his cock, fighting the feelings which seize him, the pleasure, the need-

That young face furrows in not pain but desperate focus, a fierce need to keep himself from giving over to the elder the way he has time and again in the past days. He is a fool if he thinks he has anything left to hide from his master. Imhotep has read the pages of his skin again and again and again and its secrets are known by heart.

Imhotep’s hand has not ceased, drawing out the teenager’s pleasure. He has no need to assert himself as he has on past nights by forcing feats of pleasure out of the boy. He knows he can bring him to his peak with his cock alone. He has talked to Alex with a caress of magic and words of power and seen him scream in ecstasy without a touch to be had. He has pushed the boy onto a rod of stone and made him ride it until he is wrecked. 

But now he craves simplicity. Easy. 

Content. 

Alex’s head whips to the side as Imhotep’s grip tightens and his speed builds. Deep inside the priest pounds into him, not restraining his wants, his needs as he takes the boy again and again and again. 

He presses deep and grinds in tight, powerful circles, finding the spot in Alex that makes him weep and torturing it, unrelenting until Alex is crying, eyes unseeing as they fly open and he stares at the ceiling, his face wild as he releases the pillows and scrabbles to wrap his hand around Imhotep’s trying to set his pace to something faster, harder, more-

With a laugh imhotep obliges. 

A fire burns in his abdomen and he is building rapidly to his peak, the squeeze of Alex’s body as it milks him for his seed, the way he writhes so sweetly, circling his hips despite himself, meeting the thrusts which keep coming, coming, coming, surging into the boy in endless, driving rounds. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” The boy chants and Imhotep revels in the mindless profanities, pleased as he chases their climax. 

Beneath them, around them the car sways as the train trundles ever on and Imhotep looses himself in the rhythms, the sounds, the feelings. He drives in and in and in and squeezes tight tight tight, his fist gliding in the copious pre-come which has drooled from the flushed head of the teenager’s cock and he wants to taste, to drink from that beautiful prick, but he cannot give the youth such a reward until he has learned a particularly cleaver trick. 

Until he has given in well and truly to his new place in his life. 

Until he has submitted to worship. 

Until he has been laid low. 

Until he obeys. 

“Come for me, Alex.” He growls, low and deep and his tongue curls around the ancient command, drinking up the sounds that spill from Alex’s throat, high rhythmic cries as his orgasm begins, tearing through his body, sending pulse after pulse of seed over their joined hands, spilling over his prick and onto his abdomen, his chest. 

Satisfaction rips through Imhotep and he grips Alex’s hip with his free hand and _pulls_ the boy hard onto his cock with each thrust, all that beautiful young flesh juddering with each impact and the boy is trying to keep them in but little yelping cries keep escaping him as his body his thoroughly and properly _used_ , filled with a cock which claims and claims and Imhotep roars and thrusts as deep as he is able and rolls his hips in tight, tight circles, grinding hard into boy, sowing himself as deep as he is able, giving the boy all that he is able to spill. 

Filling him, branding him, owning him. 

For long moments his pleasure sings, and as the notes fade the tension in the priest’s spine ebbs and he breath comes in deep, silent heaves, his chest shiny with sweat, his eyes wild as they rake over his exhausted, dirty lover. 

Alex stares back. His chest heaves, his skin wet and hair stuck to his brow. Shivers wrack his frame, and he can’t seem to stop his body as it continues to weakly milk the cock still buried inside him. But he is not yet ashamed. Not yet afraid. 

Imhotep’s spirit soars. 

This child, the son of his greatest enemy- This noble beast, this wild untamable thing. 

He cannot stop himself. 

He throws his head back, and he laughs.


End file.
